And now I’m back to a bottomless inbox full of emails about it all (I should remember, it’s only once it’s all over that the really hard work begins), with the flow showing no signs of diminishing. I’d love to spend the next few days alternating basking in the glory with pottering in my garden (I have a shed window full of seedlings that are all but climbing out of their modules) but I’m down to London tomorrow for more gadding about until Friday. I’m fairly sure that at one point I downshifted my life, but it doesn’t seem to have stuck.
Just to complicate matters I have developed what appears to be a hernia which may be due to persistent coughing (thanks, lurgy) but which I suspect was not helped by lugging the Brompton about. Oh the indignity. I was half inclined to leave the Brompton at home and just get about in London on the tube like a normal person, but it turns out the unions had other ideas and there’s a tube strike planned for most of my visit. And besides, the doctor didn’t say anything about folding bikes although that may have been because I cunningly didn’t ask – his only advice was not to cough if I can help it and not to do any sit ups. I think I can definitely manage the latter
Oh and here’s a picture of me. I’m the one on the bike (the anxious expression is largely down to the fact that we had foolishly thought having children at the front of the ride would help slow the whole thing down; in fact eight-year-old boys cannot be stopped from treating the whole thing like a race and I was concerned they’d overtake the police escort and disappear into the hills. They were heard shouting ‘we won Pedal on Parliament’ as they rounded the final corner into Holyrood and sprinted for the line. Safer cycling anyone?)